Plowed snow boulders along curbside,
Industrious squirrels in hunting gear
Cranky crows, afternoon squabbles
Scattered limbs, crushed acorns and walnut shells,
Two skinny snow figures, standing sentinels;
Under the dogwood, brave daffodils emerge,
green fingers holding tightly wrapped buds.
A slight wind stirs up conversation, twittering
maple twigs and crackling white oak leaves.
Nature welcomes winter’s unhurried pace
While celebrating signs of transformation..
The Pull of the Tides and Fall Harvest Moon
Drew me towards Year’s End, New Decade of
Possibilities. Winter rode Waves of early Sunsets,
Festival Lights and Celebrations.
January Dawns with an Invitation to move Gingerly
Over Frozen Ground, Peer through Bared Arms
Of Nature at the Open Horizon. Resolve, Re-vision,
Slow down, Change of Rhythm.
Well, Glory Be! These Words escape my Lips
A bit like Bird-Song, An Awakening Mantra.
Surprise, Delight, tinged with Gratitude, another
Day to Spin with the Earth, Circle the Sun.
Glory Be! Keep an Eye out for the Wonders,
Gifts that keep my World in Balance,
Heal the Hurts, Right the Wrongs, Hold to the
Promise, for Love is the Axis on which we Turn.
The Truth is I can only hold onto Truth
for the length of a deep breath of
awe. A glimmer of light, ten beats of
my heart before reality fills the space
with emotions, needs, dreams,
making it difficult to savor the
delicious freedom of Truth.
Yesterday, shrouded in the pain of absence I
searched for an answer – how to stop
an unbearable ache not found in my mind
or seared in my heart, rather embedded
in every disposition of my spirit, pulse
of my body, charge of my brain. I
knew she was not longer here.
My red and white soft furred border-collie,
with the freckles and snout of a brittany,
gifted with unending love, bearer of divine
gift to everyone who stopped long enough
to catch her eye. A single treat ensured life-
long devotion. Her life not nearly long enough.
We released her from suffering with a
great desire that she might truly run free.
Today I encountered in a fleeting moment
acceptance of her life as temporal presence,
a gift wrapped in an eternal love.
In that moment of oneness I knew
she marked my being with a love
that will never diminish, that cannot
be taken away, a gift for all eternity.
Now there abides in my reality absence
and presence, pain and healing.
The truth is that loss is only bearable
when I remember that the essence
of a life endures forever in love.
We are about done with winter in the south – nature is already signaling change. March announces its arrival a bit early with yesterday’s howling winds. The red maple outside my window is tipped with red buds. Dandelions persistently push though dried leaves; daffodils greet me on my walk to the park. Sitting on the park bench shaped from a fallen hickory, I consider winter’s lessons for survival.
With cues from burrowing creatures, I line my winter retreat with a stack of books, a list of movies to stream, CD’s hiding too long behind my top ten favorites choices, games I usually do not get around to playing I crochet comforters and wraps in warm colors, and delight in a variety of scarves to add more than warmth to winter wear. I pull out my highly favored fur-lined boots kept in the back of the closet for much of the year. On the coldest days I reach for my mother’s wool sweater, monogrammed with her initials.
Hoarding can also be life-giving I am very familiar with this hoarding instinct, having watched the squirrels’ frenzy of burying nuts. My lawn is covered with paw sized pits; scratched patches. Every newscaster in the northeast and much of the south sends reporters and photographers to the local hardware and grocers’ when a winter weather watch is announced. Viewers dutifully note the ritual of emptying shelves. In order to shift from surviving to thriving, I redefine the tradition of hoarding (while my pot of soup is simmering and my stash of chocolate is secure) I am hoarding gratitude. Wrapped in flannel and wool, I think about the pleasures of spiced tea, mulled cider, the snapping flame of a red cinnamon scented candle.
This year winter demands that I take an artist’s eye to a background of grey. Muted skies accent every point of color. From my reflection corner, where I read, write, and meditate, the red bird feeder that is kept inside in every other season creates a scene of vibrant activity. My kitchen window frames the suet feeder, and the frequent colorful visitors – cardinals, blue jays, black-capped chickadees, tufted titmouse, red-breasted finch, pileated woodpecker. Their song is a winter’s jubilation as though they share in my delight at frost that sparkles when the sunlight finally appears, crystal coated mornings, the dance of snowflakes leaving a sweet layer of white icing on rhododendrons and magnolias with their candle like bulbs. Evergreens stand out in sharp contrast to their deciduous earth mates, reinforcing their own survival with a careful selection on nutrients. Seasons have a tendency to build on the spirit of anticipation, and though I pass through my winter trials with an upswing in acceptance, I eager anticipate change.
My thoughts on winter are moderated by the reality that I grew up in the south, on the east coast. Snow only arrived as a rare occurrence, a fluke. I don’t recall growing tired of winter as a child. The bite of cold was never sub zero, but always chilled by ocean breeze. Perhaps I experienced winter as a settling, being warmed by a coal fire while curled on the sofa reading. I dressed over the single heating grate in the floor of a small back hallway, pulling corduroys under my school dress. On Saturdays the bean pot simmered with pintos and corn bread baked in the oven. Winter was mistletoe in the tops of trees, Christmas, candy canes and oranges in stockings. The nut bowl, with the cracker and pick made its first appearance. Walnuts were always my favorite. Hot chocolate was served with a pile of melting marshmallows, ready to stick to the upper lip. My brothers and I put soft peppermint sticks in the center of oranges and drew on delight.
With a turn of the wall calendar winter became the liturgical season of lent, a time to exchange “going without” for a few good and forgiving mercies. I learned to play chess one winter, and the card table was always up in the living room. Candy hearts and valentines messages created a spark of joy before winter departed. The beach in winter was made for walking, slowly, with plenty of time to explore the horizon, guessing what it would be like to swim to the other side, dreaming about discoveries.
Yearning is undeniably winter’s rough edge of desire, wanting the days to be something different, watching for the first chance to play baseball in the empty corner lot; waiting for the tight buds of azaleas to reveal color. Promises of spring are universal signs of hope. Restless desire for “anything but this”, however, becomes a source of discontent. Too often my memory of accepting winter for what it brings in the present moment is buried under layers of looking for change.
How About That 